Scooby-Doo's Unsolved Mystery
by Zoyciteyouma
Summary: After a chance meeting with the famous Shaggy Rogers, an upcoming journalist discovers that Mystery Inc. had an undocumented case where the masked culprit got away with their scheme. But how could anything have slipped past Velma? And is the fiend still out there? Surely there must be a story here...
1. Part One: Shaggy's Story

Part One: Shaggy's Story

It was February, and I was covering the final weekend shoot of _Kiddyshack_ , the latest attempt of the direct-to-video industry in marketing a recognizable franchise to a family audience; and based on the footage I'd seen the idea was proving to be even worse than it sounded.

Still, it was good for the commerce. The miniature golf courses up in the mountains didn't get much use during the off season and the film shoot had attracted a bit of a surprise interest. And that was literally the only positive spin I could think of to promote the movie for my website.

So I'd been sitting in the local diner for about an hour, doing my best to transcribe the general optimism in the small Tennessee town into an article (with personal hopes of actually beating my deadline for a change) when he appeared in the diner's doorway.

His slender build with its carefree slouch was unmistakable. His hair was perhaps not as bushy as his Mystery Inc. days but the goatee and perpetual in-the-now grin on his face had been unchanged with time. The hostess showed him to a nearby booth and he took the menu out of her hands, skimming its contents the way one typically scans through TV channels.

This was too wonderful of as chance meeting to not take advantage of, so I waited for him to place his extremely detailed brunch order before leaving the tip on my table for the latte refill and casually working my way over to his booth.

"Excuse me," I said as softly and politely as I was able, "aren't you Norville Rogers?"

He smiled warmly and said "Like, call me Shaggy." At least I'm pretty sure that was the response; I know I heard 'like' which gave me enough delight to forget the rest of the sentence. For all I know he may have said "Like, yes I am," or "Like, the batteries in my viridian mangrove are swarming Universities." It didn't matter. This was THE Shaggy! Straight out of my childhood in the same green shirt and brown bellbottoms, gesturing to the seat across the table from where he'd just ordered several entrees.

I fell into the seat failing to maintain my professional composure as I insisted how high on the fandom scale I was of his. He seemed flattered and maybe a little puzzled, but in my line of work I've met many celebrities who truly were unaware of how much of an effect they have on their viewership.

Shaggy and I got to talking, and somewhere along the way I got it in my head that there might be some kind of a character study or expose I could write about him. I offered to pick up his tab (yes, that was a mistake, I think I paid a hundred and twelve dollars) if he let me record the conversation to use as a source for whatever my editor would allow. He agreed enthusiastically and we talked on the record for another hour.

Most of my conversation with Shaggy involved a lot of reminiscing about the criminals in the masks, and one of the things which surprised me a bit was how fondly Shaggy remembered his experiences with Mystery Inc. He cracked jokes about the time he'd been frozen in a block of ice and about being hypnotized into thinking he was a lion tamer, and he admitted with no shame at how easily manipulated he always was about accepting dog treats as bribes to put himself in danger. It wasn't at all what I expected from the guy who I always envision running/through the door/window/wall.

"So, was it always someone in a mask?" I asked him.

"You know," he shrugged, "half the time Scoob and I never could keep track. Like, there was this whole Vincent Van Ghoul period that was a complete blur. Most of the time we just did stuff and let the rest of the gang sort it all out. If Fred says we're meeting the Addams Family then I'm like, okay man we can go with that."

We laughed together. "So what got you guys into solving mysteries in the first place?"

"Velma. She was the driving force behind it all. Like, Fred was the glue that held us all together but Velma was the one who kept steering us toward the cemeteries that couldn't spell the word 'cemetery'. If she hadn't been so good at what she did I probably never would have seen Europe or Africa or any of the places we got to explore."

"Was there ever a mystery you guys weren't able to solve?"

Shaggy's demeanor changed slightly as he was about to tell me no on reflex but some lingering memory was evidently stirring in him. "Like, I don't know if you'd call it an unsolved mystery," he said after a moment's thought, "but there was this one where we all agree on what happened."

"It started the way it always did, Freddy was driving the Mystery Machine into the spookiest place he could possibly find for some reason that probably made sense to him. The sky was already getting dark enough without the trees reaching over us like they were ready to grab the van at any minute.

"Of course we stopped at the only general store we'd seen for miles to ask for directions. The creepy old man behind the counter was like "You kids better stay away from that big scary mansion just up the hill!" And I was like, "For once could we just listen to him?" And Fred says "Come on gang, let's check it out," which meant we were going up to the big scary mansion just up the hill that we had no business being in.

"We get up there, and man did it live up to the reputation! Everything about it said 'this place is haunted' so Freddy gets out the old flashlights and says "Come on gang, let's break in and rummage around a whole lot." So Scoob and I volunteer to guard the van to which Velma mutters something about us being spineless and they go inside.

"Like two minutes later this scary guy who looked like he must have been eight feet tall comes pounding on the windshield demanding to know what we're doing there. "Leaving!" I say and Scoob backs me up. It turns out he's the local sheriff and I'm like, no way I'd break any laws under _his_ jurisdiction.

"So he tells us we need to leave, and we say that our friends are inside. He orders us to go collect them and get out. So we scramble inside and Freddy and the girls are nowhere to be found. And this place...it must have belonged to the Universal lot. I don't know what went on here, but they must have had some crazy fortune teller conventions. We see everything! Crystal balls, tarot cards, runic symbols on the wall; you name it, they knew you were going to name it.

"And that's when we saw him. This hooded figure with these glowing red eyes hissing "Beware" at us over and over. "Point taken," I said. "We'll be elsewhere." And we ran in and out of corridors until we smacked right into Velma, and I think we knocked off her glasses.

"Scooby and I dive into a couple of sarcophaguses and wait for someone to tell us the coast is clear when Freddy comes into the room with some glamazon woman who wasn't Daphne. We tell him about the spooky soothsayer and Fred says "Come on gang, let's split up and make ourselves easier prey for this thing." Velma tells us to go look for clues in the kitchen so we head that way.

"Scoob is searching through the pantry when wouldn't you know it? Old spooky soothsayer is back again saying "Beware" like there was something worse than him in that place. Scooby and I run and he follows, and we just can't seem to shake him. Finally we grab a tapestry off the wall and wait for the soothsayer to run through the doorway where we throw it over him and tackle him to the ground.

"But it turns out we've captured the wrong guy. It's some smiley weatherman type who's been hanging out with Velma. Fred and Daphne are with them and the glamazon is gone again, and apparently Velma has it all figured out and Freddy's been sorting out an overly complicated trap for the soothsayer, which means Scooby and I are the bait.

"Let's just say that never goes according to plan.

"Scooby probably has more of the details than I do, because I just remember tripping on something and winding up headfirst down a barrel and then rolling around a lot. I went down at least two flights of stairs and across what felt like some pretty unreasonable speed bumps before I found myself outside the mansion."

Shaggy trailed off as if he was surprised by the lack of resolution to his own story. It took him a minute or so to come back to himself and I waited without interrupting his thought process.

"You know," he said at last, "I've never forgotten a face. When it comes to the unmasking, you could show me any fiend we've ever come across and I could tell you exactly who it turned out to be. The soothsayer-"

It was like he didn't really know what he should be feeling other than confusion. "What happened?" I asked as gently as possible to remind him that I was still engaged in the story.

"The rest of the gang came out of the mansion, and they were...just not talking. Usually there's joking, and enthusiasm and...you know, a criminal being led away proclaiming how he would have gotten away with whatever it was. This time there was nothing. I said 'So what's up guys? You look like you've seen a ghost." Nobody made eye contact with me or each other. We all got in the Mystery Machine and drove away. It was the quietest the van had ever sounded. I even asked them at one point who was in the mask and I never got a response."

"Did you ever find out?"

"No. About a month later I mentioned the soothsayer to Scooby and he just whimpered so I left it alone. Occasionally the mystery would come up in the group, but we never really sat down and talked about it."

"What do you think happened?"

"I don't know, and frankly I'm fine not knowing. Because if whatever happened was enough to call off Velma then it's not something I ever want to revisit."

I glanced over at my recording device and thanked Shaggy for speaking with me for so long. I told him that I wasn't sure what would ever become of the transcript but I offered him a shot at any final word that he'd like to offer.

Yeah," he said with a trace of his smile returning to him. "Like, there is no amount of Scooby Snacks that could ever get me to set foot in that spooky place again."


	2. Part Two: Velma

Part Two: Velma's Scrapbook

After my interview with Shaggy, I was feeling really enthusiastic about doing a piece on Mystery Inc. but my editor was being less than supportive, so for a few months the transcript stayed untouched on my laptop. It wasn't until I was assigned to cover the opening of The Casey Kasem Experience at the Radio History Museum that I noticed my flight had a layover in the city where Velma Dinkley's bookshop was located. My curiosity got the better of me and I shelled out the $50 fee to take an earlier flight so I'd have time to drop by.

The street on which the bookshop was located had a distinct village feel to it, as if it was geared towards a very specific kind of tourism. The streetlights were shaped like oil lanterns and the buildings had been constructed in a Colonial American style. There was also a faint smell of 'horse' in the air, suggesting the possibility of a carriage tour were I to arrive at a different time. Right now the street was empty. It was just me and my hope of uncovering the lost Mystery Inc. mystery.

I stepped into the bookshop, immediately trying to think of an adjective other than 'quaint' because it's clichéd and I never actually figured out what 'quaint' means in the context. Old-timey? Traditional? Clearly inspired by artist depictions of Edgar Allen Poe's study maybe?

From the moment I bumped the overhead bell with the door frame I felt like I was being taken back to a more innocent yet enlightened time; where books were portals to knowledge and revered as such. The darkly painted wood on the inside of the shop managed to convey not a sense of dismalness, but an invitational silence.

I crept past the front end shelves, arranged to resemble a tiny library with fiction organized on the shelves to the left and non-fiction to the right, and a box on the floor full of Ben Ravencroft books marked 'Free. Please take one." Why I crept, I don't know. It just felt natural given the atmosphere.

The back of the shop was a much more open space, as if it was meant to be a reading/meeting area with the proprietor's work station overseeing the half-room like a hotel desk clerk. A few masks hung on the wall behind the desk; ghoulish things. I recognized them by sight, even if the names of said specters weren't coming to me.

I was scanning the station for a second bell to ring when I realized there was a large figure standing behind me.

I turned.

And I had a single moment permanently etched into my brain.

It was a wax figure in a glass case, I get that. But it was a realistic one, and in that moment I could only process those large green-skinned hands reaching for me. My mind supplied the low moaning that I would have attested to under oath was coming from this monster. "Greebus!" I called out as stumbled backwards over my own feet.

And with that, Velma was behind her desk, jovially snickering at my outburst.

"I see you've met Mr. Carswell," came the cheerful yet sly voice behind me. I jerked my head to see where it had come from. Velma Dinkley. Same turtleneck. Same glasses. Same blatant disregard towards the ability of others to have a heart attack.

"I wasn't expecting that," I said trying to regain my composure.

"I probably need a bigger sign out front mentioning that he's in here," she laughed. "He gets some interesting reactions. 'Greebus' is a new one."

"Yeah, I'm not sure where that even came from."

"It happens to the best of us." Velma slipped around the counter to admire her wax centerpiece which stood twice as tall as her.

"Mr. Carswell isn't actually inside there is he?" I asked only half-jokingly.

"It's a wax replica. One of our fans made this for a convention and then donated it to the shop. The original costume was four inches shorter but the details are surprisingly accurate."

"Indeed," I said while consciously trying to keep 'greebus' from downloading into my mental lexicon.

"Now these guys back here," she pointed to the pair of masks mounted on the wall behind the her, "they're the real things. The Strawberry Phantom and the Snow Beast. And the glass casing on the counter contains the actual cat medallion Dr. Bell used to hypnotize Daphne's aunt." Velma smiled proudly. "I've also got Zombie Cleopatra in the back, but I've never felt right about hanging her up."

"Don't you ever feel a little uncomfortable with them staring at you while you work?"

She laughed. "They're just masks. I've actually got a lead on the Chocolate Phantom mask. I would love to get all three of them together again."

I wasn't sure how to respond, kind of getting lost in this bizarre reality that I was standing next to THE Velma Dinkley in all of her knee high stocking glory. I wondered what kind of impression she had made on the various criminals her ever-analytical brain had put in prison. She came across as warm, friendly, and easy to underestimate. But listening to the confidence in her soft voice for longer than ten seconds left me feeling like she was fully in control, kind of the early adult version of Miss Marple.

"So which of our mysteries did you want to ask me about?" Velma asked me, with her eye's twinkle visible through her very thick glass lenses.

"Mysteries?" I repeated, wondering just how transparent I was.

"You've never been in here before," she explained, reading my mind, "but you barely looked at the books. So you're not browsing. You're here for a reason. Something you didn't want to call ahead for."

Well, my cover story was irrelevant now, and frankly I wasn't too disappointed. "The Spooky Soothsayer."

She smiled and disappeared behind the counter, returning a second later with a scrapbook. "No mystery there."

"Shaggy said you never unmasked the culprit," I said.

"This is true," Velma admitted. "We didn't need to. It was obvious."

"Velma obvious, or bystander obvious?" My flattery got a giggle out of her.

She sat down on one of the sofas in the center of the room and patted the cushion beside her, indicating I should join her there. I took one last defiant glance at Mr. Carswell before accepting half of the open scrapbook in my lap.

 _A newspaper article showing a massive structure surrounded by woods_

"This was the home of C.S. Barley, a carnival emcee and master of hoaxes. He made an impressive living by convincing spectators of such nonsense like charms, fortune telling, and mythical creatures. When he retired, he turned his home into a museum displaying the collection of oddities he'd accumulated throughout his life. And this...

 _Another newspaper article showing a thick white coffin_

"was the coffin he used to have displayed in his front room. Barley would wait in the coffin while the tour groups filed in and looked around at the various minor trinkets. Then when he was certain they were not expecting it, he'd pop out of the coffin to give them a premature startle. Always the showman."

"So, is he actually dead now?"

"Yes. At the age of seventy-three."

"Was he buried in the same coffin?"

"No, but let's not get too far ahead."

 _A magazine photo of an attractive dark haired woman_

"This is Lindsey Channing, AKA The Angel Swan, an upcoming trapeze artist. She was nineteen when she and Barley got married. He was seventy-one. When he died, Lindsey's family went into an extensive court battle over her inheritance with Barley's former wives. It took twelve years for that to get sorted out."

"Did you guys meet her?"

"How did you know?"

"Shaggy said there was a glamazon in the museum."

"We happened to show up the night Lindsey was signing over what was left of the house to the city."

"Was that a coincidence?"

"Part of mystery solving is figuring out when a coincidence _is_ and when it _isn't_. We were at a paranormal convention when we first heard about the existence of Barley's museum, and that Lindsey was about to sell it off. Freddy made a special trip out there so we could check it out before the place closed forever, and that's when we encountered...

 _A hand-drawn sketch of a long armed, ghastly figure in a cloak with glowing eyes_

"the Spooky Soothsayer."

"Who drew this?"

"Scooby did. He's a dog of many talents."

"Was the Soothsayer supposed to be the ghost of C.S. Barley?"

"That was one thing that never really made much sense. Usually the fake ghosts at least try to tap into some sort of legend about the place they haunt. This one just seemed sort of generic. In fact, Shaggy was the one who named him the Spooky Soothsayer. You could just as easily have called him the Blue Banshee."

"So the Soothsayer was trying to scare people away from...what?"

"We never found that out either. Money. Jewels. Something valuable."

"And yet you knew who it was?"

"I did. But Freddy's trap didn't work out so well."

"What happened?"

"Three words. Danger Prone Daphne. And without being able to catch the Soothsayer red-handed, there was no proof, just circumstantial evidence. No arrest was made. In fact...

 _Another newspaper photo of a large man with a Sheriff's badge_

"Sheriff Braxton was furious with us. He said if he ever saw any of us 'meddling kids' and our 'blanket-blank dog' again he'd throw us in jail on principle."

"Shaggy mentioned another person there."

"Daniel!"

 _An advertisement image of a young attorney_

"He was the lawyer overseeing the transition of the house's ownership to the city."

"He looks pretty charismatic."

"Freddy insisted that Daniel was flirting with me. But I still hold true to my original theory."

"Which is?"

"Hang on, we're not quite there yet."

 _Another drawing, this time of a stone ankh_

"This is something we found pretty early on but we weren't sure what it was for. It turned out to be the key to Barley's coffin."

"What was in there?"

"We never found out. It was locked when we first got to the museum, but after Fred's trap failed we found the coffin unlocked and empty."

"Who had the key last?"

"I did. But I lost it when my glasses were knocked off."

"So who was it then?"

"Do you want to take a guess?"

"Lindsey."

"Why Lindsey?"

"She was a trapeze artist, so she had the skills to pose as a ghost. Maybe she was trying to scare off Barley's former wives for whatever was in the coffin."

"That's a good thought, but that court case had already settled, and Lindsey had no real motive to dress in a costume since she already owned the house. She could have spent as much time as she needed searching the place."

"So Sheriff Braxton?"

"That was actually my first thought, considering how odd it was that the town sheriff was personally overseeing a real estate venture. But then we found this...

 _Half a crumbled ticket stub to PhantomCon_

"This was the clue that solved the mystery. We had just come from PhantomCon ourselves where we'd first heard about Barley's museum. And at one point Daniel had made an offhanded comment about the latest Mile Selinker game which had made its public debut at the convention."

"So while he was at the convention Daniel discovered something was of value in the very mansion he'd been in charge of handling the paperwork for?"

"Exactly!"

Velma sat next to me, still pleased with her own deductions. I, on the other hand, felt less than satisfied. Perhaps it was a combination of the lack of a definite conclusion and the fact that my idea for doing a piece on Mystery Inc. was dead in the water.

"Do you know he even had the nerve to wink at me as we drove off?"

"You think that was a victory wink?"

"He got away with it, despite our meddling. Maybe even because of it."

"How so?"

"Well, one thing that bugged me for a long time was why he'd go through the trouble of creating a costumed character in order to steal something, but then I realized that Mystery Inc. was getting recognized. People knew us wherever we went. Even the town store where we stopped just before the Barley Museum sold mugs with Scooby's face on it. Daniel knew our methods, and knew that with a ghost to catch we'd all get too distracted with trying to solve a mystery to notice the valuables being slipped out from under our noses."

Velma sighed, briefly losing her aura of confidence for just a moment.

"It's a stain on our record. We may not have been outwitted, but we were beaten."

Everything went really fast after that and I just barely made my flight, but finally with several hours to do nothing but sit and think I spent a fair amount of time just feeling lousy. Selfishly, I'd really thought this was going to pan out in my favor. I could also tell that the undefeated Soothsayer still bothered Velma, and I couldn't help but empathize to a degree.

After I was done just feeling lousy I started sketching out as much information as I could remember Velma telling me, just to see if there was anything not adding up.

If there was I wasn't seeing it.

Except-

Okay, it was a long shot, but there were a huge number of gaps in the story. Even the explanation Velma had put forth, legitimate though it was, was anything but airtight. I had one question gnawing at me: What if Velma was wrong?

At first it felt to me like I was being disrespectful to her by questioning her explanation, but by the time the plane landed I'd convinced myself that even Velma wasn't entirely satisfied with her own conclusion, and the most respectful thing I could do for her was try to prove her wrong. If nothing else, I'd fail at that and wind up supporting what she already believed.

Regardless, I wasn't finished.

I checked into my hotel and went straight to the internet, single-minded of purpose. My editor was going to have to indulge me, or at least tolerate what I was doing.

My search engine came up on the screen and I entered my credentials. I filled in the 'who do you want to search for' tab and hit enter.

And honestly, as the search engine took a minute to do its thing, how could I resist saying these words out loud in the only time in my life I'd ever be able to utter them professionally?

"Scooby-Doo, where are you?"


	3. Part Three: Scooby's Snack

Part Three: Scooby's Snack

*Note: portions of the conversation below have been edited for clarity

Now _this_ was a hotel room. And I wasn't paying for it, at least not yet.

My editor had been kind (possibly exasperated) enough to set me up for a weekend at the Sheldorf with only the fleeting hope that my intended guest would be able to spare me a window of his time. If he showed, I didn't know where he was going to sit, so I arranged the den area with as many options as I could think of. We had the couch, we had the table, we had some cushions on the floor. Suffice to say, I was giddy with excitement.

Tracking him down had been fairly easy, but getting through his people (talking animals have people) had been challenging to say the least. I understood their protectiveness, considering his fuzzy face was worth around a billion dollars in revenue. I'd been given a list of questions which were off limits, none of which I would ever have thought to ask until they told me not to, and instructed to expect him at _any time_ over the next two days (meaning I might have had to snap into work mode at three in the morning).

I did think it was considerate of them to send over a large sample of the infamous box of bribery known as Scooby Snacks for me to use as an offering, which I was promptly pouring into a clear bowl. What was it about these things? They apparently had the power to coerce an otherwise rational soul into the gambling of one's life. I read through the ingredients on the box looking for something addictive like absinthe slipped in right after monosodium glutamate, but no answers there.

I'll admit, one thing that always struck me as a bit of a puzzlement was the fact that Scooby Snacks were never offered as an incentive for _after_ you arm wrestled the sasquatch, they always served as a nudge out the door. I couldn't help but wonder if they somehow managed to activate the part of the brain which caused one to honor whatever verbal contract had just been made. Maybe Scooby Snacks should be required hors d'oeuvres at any political conference.

I actually had one up to my lips when I was startled by a knock on the door. I dropped the treat back into the bowl, vowing to never admit to what had nearly happened, and scurried across the room. I hadn't expected anyone to show up so soon, but I figured one of his people would want to coach me on etiquette for things like how to address him, how to shake hands, etc.

I pulled my hotel room door open and time stopped for me. He was sitting there in the hallway, with his huge tail wagging and a grin on his massive face that could probably meet my eye level if he stood up on his hind legs. My mouth opened on its own even if no sound came from it, and I could feel my eyes were tearing up ever so slightly.

"Scooby Dooby Doo!" he howled.

At that moment I stopped being a professional journalist and became a six year old standing in front of a familiar Great Dane. Without any conscious decision on my part I knelt down and put my arms around his big furry neck and hugged him. "Aw," I heard his friendly voice respond as a heavy paw touched my shoulder. There are some moments you don't realize you wait your whole life for.

The cost of this for me was a commitment to ghost writing (no pun intended) Scooby's memoirs. Assuming Scooby would agree to my pitch, it would mean a new source of revenue for his people, a percentage for my editor, he'd have his story published and I'd have my name in tiny print on the bottom of the cover. Who besides me wouldn't be happy with the arrangement?

An empty bowl of Scooby Snacks later, the two of us were pretty much on the same page regarding the book deal. I foresaw two potential issues. The first was that Scooby was so utterly agreeable that it would be hard for me to find those dramatic beats required for a typical reader. Not that I was worried about the thing selling; Scooby would have a built in audience and a talking animal's memoirs had never been done before so we had the luxury of pioneering a sub-genre. But it would ultimately be my reputation on the line if we just phoned it in, and I couldn't risk not giving my all. As such, I'd gotten Scooby to agree to a full chapter on Scrappy.

The other issue was going to be my ability to translate Scooby's speech mannerisms. Usually I was able to understand him, but I still had no idea what "Rozevrarera" was even after hearing him use the word at least three times.

But the meeting was so friendly and fun for me that after an hour and two pizzas (of which I think I had one slice) I was substantially more excited about the book writing process, not to mention the numerous future meetings Scooby and I would inevitably be having.

We were winding it down for the evening, and I'd nearly forgotten my original intent for speaking with him when Scooby nodded to me and said in his loveably gruff voice, "So anything else you want to know?"

"There is one thing if you don't mind."

"Nope." he smiled.

"I've spoken with both Velma and Shaggy already-"

"Raggy," he chuckled at the mention of his buddy's name.

"Shaggy had mentioned there was an unsolved mystery."

"There was?"

"Yeah, he called it the Spooky Soothsayer." The moment I said that name Scooby's recollection of the event caused him to whimper. I apologized quickly. "Was this a bad experience?"

Scooby bobbed his head. "Daphne was crying."

I blinked. "She was crying?"

"Uh-huh. Fred had to hold her."

"What was she crying about?"

"Ghost!" said Scooby like he was reliving it. I thought maybe I should drop the subject but I was already invested enough in this one mystery that it didn't feel right to back off.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Scooby trembled, and I felt guilty for asking, but then in a flash he was on his feet leaning over me in a menacing pose while snarling. He treated me to a rather complicated pantomime of what I assume his encounter with the Soothsayer had been like. I couldn't really follow it all, and at one point when Scooby was up on the table waving his paws I had to chew back a laugh, but the performance finally settled when Scooby sank down behind the sofa, reaching upwards and growling, only to disappear into silence.

I pushed past my speechlessness. "So he went underwater?"

Scooby shook his head. "Melted."

"He melted? Into what?"

Scooby made a sweeping gesture indicating a large area of the floor. "Boiling."

"The Soothsayer fell in?"

"Uh-huh!" Scooby hopped back on the couch, and I recognized his account of the events was over.

I wasn't quite ready to process what it sounded like had happened. "Velma says Daniel was the Soothsayer."

"Uh-uh!" Scooby stood firm. "Ghost!"

"Oh my God," I muttered. If I was harboring the hypothesis that Velma's memory of the story had been flawed then I certainly had to accept the Scooby's may have been as well. In fact I was hoping for it, because I'd never considered the possibility that one of Mystery Inc.'s crooks in a mask had been killed during their investigation.

But as much as I hated to admit it, it made sense. Daphne crying, the gang not talking about it, no arrest being made. I figured it was possible Velma was in denial about the whole thing, but as enthusiastic as she'd been to show me her scrapbook it made more sense that she honestly thought she'd solved it.

Wait a minute, the scrapbook. Something about that whole encounter had struck me as odd and I couldn't pinpoint what it was until now. She hadn't known I was coming but she had the scrapbook sitting behind the counter of her shop ready to be pulled out on cue. I didn't know what it meant, but my gut told me that I was onto something important.

Scooby was still sitting across from me on the couch with his head cocked to the side, studying me curiously. I wasn't sure how long I'd zoned out.

"Sorry, just thinking."

He kept staring at me, not in an intimidating manner (I wouldn't peg Scooby as capable of that) but simply trying to understand something. I guess we were in the same van.

"What's in it for you?" he asked with an agenda free sincerity.

"Me?" I looked at that sweet canine face. "In what?"

"Soothsayer," he asked, "Why you want to know?"

What an odd question, I thought. But then I realized that it was a perfectly reasonable question, just not one that I was prepared to answer. Why _was_ I doing this? For justice maybe? Yeah, that was an unrealistic stretch. Maybe because I felt like it needed to be done? Um, sure. If I had the slightest sense of altruism I'd be recycling.

"I guess," I took a long pause and Scooby patiently waited for me to find the next words. "I grew up watching the Mystery Machine travel across the globe, always showing up at the right place at the right time and doing the right thing and moving on to next adventure. And I saw how well you guys got along with each other even though you all had nothing in common outside of the shared experiences. I mean, you were the Breakfast Club in a van."

"Breakfast!" Scooby laughed. And I laughed. It was contagious.

"I wanted to be part of the gang. I imagined I would grow up and become somebody famous and then get to be a guest in one of the mysteries, you know, 'Today Scooby-Doo meets what-my-face in the Mystery of the Marvelous Monkey Mystic'. So when I bumped into Shaggy and I heard about one of the mysteries being unsolved I thought, this is my chance to be part of the gang."

Scooby smiled at me again. He got up ready to leave, but before heading for the door Scooby moved over to me, taking my hand palm-up and placing an object in it. Then he casually showed himself out, leaving me a little sad to see him go but secure in the knowledge that we'd be having many conversations in the future as the book developed.

Mostly I was feeling grateful, even honored by the gift he had left in my hand; a token of respect which I would keep and treasure for as long as I'd be able to; a single Scooby Snack.


	4. Part Four: Fred's Trap

Part Four: Fred's Trap

Now I could die happy. I'd gone for a ride in the Mystery Machine. The only thing that could make my life better would be an invitation into the TARDIS.

Fred Jones had to be the single nicest person I'd ever met in my life. All I'd done was send him an e-mail asking how he'd feel about a phone interview for an article on their experience at C.S. Barley's museum. An hour later I received a response. Fred offered to drive me out to the old site. In the Mystery Machine. I melted.

Okay, poor word choice considering what Scooby had told me about the Spooky Soothsayer's fate, but it took all of my self control just to limit my giggling like an idiot to no more than thirty percent of the trip. Something about the green metallic beast just gave me a sense that I was at a home that I hadn't previously known I was a part of.

Fred and I gabbed about things and stuff; nothing crucial, just...whatever, man. Exotic locations travelled to, irreplaceable personalities met. Fred clearly missed the old gang, even though he admitted mystery solving is really better in phases than in a constant barrage of masks and menaces.

We'd arrived at the general store he and the rest of Mystery Inc. had visited so long ago. According to Fred, little about the place had changed except for the management. He'd insisted on stopping here, partially to retrace his steps and jog his memory of the event, but mostly because this store was where he'd bought the supplies on his previous trip to build the infamous trap which had ultimately failed. Fred was going to show me first hand exactly what had happened.

He'd gone on inside while I took a few snapshots of the store's exterior. I still had the chorus of "Trap of Love" stuck in my head (I'll never figure out how Fred had managed to get The Hex Girls on 8-track) and somehow it was starting to feel like the background anthem for this ongoing attempt of mine to create a story out of a situation that seemed reluctant to be created. By this point I was considering the possibility that my Unsolved Mystery piece might be a bit of a bust that I could hopefully disguise as journalism with a few carefully distracting pictures.

I finally went into the store and immediately began to scout for the Scooby Doo coffee mugs that Velma had mentioned being here. I know I could get one of those just about anywhere but it would take on a personal meaning if I could find one at this store. Fred was speaking with the woman at the counter.

"Can you tell me where your nets are?" he asked her.

She indifferently pointed him in the direction towards my spot. I quickly surveyed the cans of fluorescent spray paint and extensive collection of personal flash lights until I found what I thought he was looking for.

"Is this it?" I held up the biggest butterfly net I could find.

"Not exactly," he joined me and grabbed an armload of bulbs. "There is probably a large roll of fishing net."

"So large enough to drop on someone."

"Actually large enough to build a bigger butterfly net," he said proudly. "I remember the crane was designed to sweep down sideways and scoop up the ghost like a fish in an aquarium."

"Is that way more effective?"

"It depends on where we are. With lower ceilings you sometimes have to improvise." He found the netting he needed and began loading up my arms with wire and batteries. "So Sheriff Braxton?" he asked me, returning to our previous conversation in the van.

"Velma said that the signs were pointing to the Sheriff until you all found that ticket stub to PhantomCon."

"Yeah, I always thought there was something about that guy. But him dressing up like the Soothsayer never seemed to make much sense."

I could tell Fred really wanted to agree with me, if for no other reason than to confirm the person inside the costume hadn't in fact been killed. But in truth I was really reaching for straws.

"Technically the Sheriff was never ruled out. What if the ticket stub was a red herring?"

Fred grumbled. "I've never liked those."

"Okay, let's say Daniel _did_ go to PhantomCon and somewhere along the way he _did_ inadvertently drop his ticket stub. If you guys hadn't stumbled across it where would the investigation have gone?"

"I don't know. Coincidences are pretty rare in mystery solving. I think what Velma was getting at was that Daniel gotten there when we had. Until then no one in the museum had even heard of the Soothsayer. "

"That they admitted to," I said a little more enthusiastically than I was intending. "Somebody is lying about something."

"Well, this is true," Fred laughed. "nobody ever told Shaggy to look for clues in the kitchen."

We set a mountain of stuff on the counter in front of the worker. She shot us both a glance. "Is there anything else?"

"Do you still carry Scooby Doo coffee mugs?"

She huffed. "Try looking under that stack of old ponchos."

One thing I learned from this whole experience is that Shaggy doesn't get enough credit for bravery. I stood outside the abandoned Barley Museum with a chill running down to my ankles. 'Creepy' was an unqualified euphemism to describe the face of this decaying yet still hungry façade that we were about to voluntarily set foot into. "I can't do this," I thought, fully agreeing with the imaginary horror movie audience in my head screaming at me not to go in there.

"All right," Fred lit up, paralleling his flashlight, "Let's go."

Fred Jones was fearless, perhaps psychotically so, and Velma certainly had the same lack of flight response. I hadn't met Daphne, but either she was as unconcerned about her well-being as the other two, or she fed off of Fred's charisma. The latter was certainly what I was doing. The moment he said "Let's go" my feet obeyed, despite how convinced I was that I would be jumping into his arms at the first floor squeak.

We were in the foyer area and Fred shone his flashlight beam on the opposite wall. "That's where Barley's coffin used to be." He waited patiently for my response before kindly giving it to me, gesturing at my camera. Oh yeah. I forgot I wanted to remember this whole experience. -snap-

Fred gave me a quick tour of the now empty rooms he and the gang had explored. I traced the barrel's path which had deposited him outside during the final chase. -snap- I saw the room where Daphne had been stashed after her kidnapping. -snap- The hallway where Velma had lost her glasses. -snap- And the entire time Fred was completely nonplussed by the overwhelming sense of dread this place induced in me. I'll admit, after the series of causal "There's where Daphne found the ticket stub", "There's where we had the collision with Daniel" and "There's where Lindsey screamed about the presence of the dog" I was feeling significantly more at ease.

Finally at long last we went down into the cellar where the trap had failed and the Soothsayer's fate had been sealed. It was completely empty now, save for a few cobwebs and dust. Fred got to work rebuilding a mock-up of his trap in the exact spot he'd had it previously, right at the bottom of the staircase.

"Do you need me to do anything?" I offered.

"No thanks. I have a rhythm to this," he replied.

Based on the skeleton of the trap, it looked as though Shaggy and Scooby were to have gotten the Soothsayer to chase them down the stairs where the well-timed release of the trap would cause the huge net to scoop up anyone at the bottom of the steps and then rotate on an axis to dump the victim into a predesigned location.

"What used to be down here?"

"Some sort of processing machine. There was a huge vat of molten wax in the middle of the room." He seemed uncomfortable mentioning it.

"Was that where the Soothsayer fell?"

Fred only nodded, still being focused on the task at hand.

"Could he have been fake?" I suggested.

"The spooks usually are."

"I mean if C.S. Barley had been dealing with wax figures, could the Soothsayer you captured have melted because it wasn't real?"

"Believe me, I'd love to say that's what happened," said Fred. "But I heard a scream as he went under the surface."

I was getting tired of holding the camera so I put it on the floor while I sat on the bottom step, mulling the mystery over. It took me a few moments to work up the courage to ask, but I figured if I could handle the museum I could handle awkwardness. "Could you be wrong?"

"About what?"

"The scream."

I guess I threw off Fred's rhythm, because he stopped working and looked at me curiously. I'd hoped I hadn't hurt his feelings.

"When I was at Velma's bookshop," I explained, "I had an unexpected run in with her wax figure. My own brain added a growl to him, which under other circumstances I might have sworn I'd actually heard."

"You think I imagined the scream?"

"You'd just watched you trap drop someone into a vat of boiling wax. Stress can play tricks on you."

Fred ran that through his mind a few times, and I could tell that the thought of _not_ having been involved in someone's death was giving him hope. "You think Velma was right all along?"

"I don't know. Did Daphne hear a scream as well?"

"She said she did," answered Fred. "Of course she felt even more responsible. She was on that side of the room waiting to release the sandbags on the Soothsayer when the net got to her spot. When her dress got caught on the lever opening the top of the vat it-"

He was cut off by the sound of the front door opening and shutting. For a moment we just stared at each other. Several possibilities ran through my head (most of them involving the Soothsayer and a missing journalist) before I made the connection that the van was outside and Sheriff Braxton had made his feelings about Mystery Inc. quite clear.

"Are we supposed to be here?" I asked Fred.

"No. Run," he advised.

My one chance at a really classic Scooby-Doo chase scene was undermined by my own stupidity. I'd forgotten my camera down in the cellar. And of course when I went back for it I sprung Fred's trap and wound up being carried across the room in the netting I'd helped him purchase.

Yes, it was indeed the Sheriff, just not Sheriff Braxton. Sheriff Henning, in between helping me out of the trap and trying not to laugh out loud, informed us that Sheriff Braxton had recently left his old job to make a run for Governor. He'd left explicit instructions to arrest any member of Mystery Inc. on sight, which Sheriff Henning was choosing to ignore in exchange for a photograph of him with Fred. I was happy to oblige.

We were back in the Mystery Machine and "Trap of Love" was back in my head. I couldn't help but feel a little discouraged by the revelation about Sheriff Braxton. He'd evidently been trying to run for Governor for a while now but hadn't managed to stir up the necessary funding. When Sheriff Henning told us that I thought "That's it! We've got the motive!" only to then figure out that Braxton hadn't run in any previous elections, suggesting that he hadn't walked out of the museum with whatever had been locked in the coffin.

That also inadvertently answered my question about Velma's Scrapbook. With Braxton going into politics, people were going to try to dig up dirt on him. At some point, someone would be asking the same questions I was asking, and Velma (consistently being a step ahead of the rest of us) was going to have the information ready to go for anyone who made their way to her bookstore. Like I said, discouraged.

Of course, Fred was in great spirits. He clearly missed the chase, and even though we'd accomplished jack sprat I could tell he'd really had fun. And honestly, so had I.

A few miles down the road and we were laughing about the whole thing. Fred assured me that getting caught in one of his traps was a rite of passage, and he even admitted to being as terrified as I was when we heard that front door. I guess he's not inhumanly fearless after all.

"Thank God the new Sheriff was a Mystery Inc. fan," I said.

"Yeah," he agreed, "It's always nice when we have a positive impact on people who recognize us."

They'd definitely had a positive impact on me. From the moment I'd spotted Shaggy in that café I'd been compelled to want to get involved in some-

Wait. What was it Shaggy had told me?

I pulled out my laptop where I had the transcript of his conversation saved and scrolled through it. Looking...for...

"Greebus!" I said without thinking.

"Greebus?" Fred chuckled, "What's that?"

I stared at him in personal bewilderment. "I think I just solved the mystery."


	5. Part Five: Daphne's Treasure

Part Five: Daphne's Treasure

It had been a few months. Between a massive computer crash and having to track down the infamous Daniel to get confirmation of Mystery Inc.'s accounting of events, the steps leading up to my article's first draft had been tedious at best.

I'd been overzealous when I blurted out that I knew who the Soothsayer was in front of Fred. There would be consequences if I was wrong (which I was prepared for) but I wasn't entirely comfortable with the thought of being right. The moment I published my article someone's life was probably going to change, and the weight of that realization had caused me to procrastinate beyond professionalism. And to top it off, my editor was demanding I speak with Daphne.

The Blake family owned an isolated beachfront property, two stories with wooden railings and a swing on the porch; a former bed and breakfast named the Stefanianna House, which I found myself parked in front of. Repainted with an orange roof, violet paneling and a light green trim convinced me that I had arrived at the correct address without having to conform it with the GPS. Late afternoon sunlight draped gently over the sand, creating the image of a perfect seascape. I felt like I didn't belong here.

I'd been sitting in my car for half an hour, not working up the nerve to smudge this oil painting with my fingertips. When I started this whole journey I had never expected to meet Daphne. Granted I hadn't expected to meet any of them. Shaggy had been a chance encounter. I'd gone looking for Velma, but I didn't think I'd find her on the first try. At that point I really thought that would have been it for me; Velma would have answered all the important questions, the trail would have dead ended, I could not have anticipated hugging Scooby, riding in the Mystery Machine or getting caught in one of Fred's traps. But the one thing I would have bet my life on was that I'd never meet Daphne.

If meeting Scooby Doo had caused me to regress to the innocence of my childhood, then the looming introduction to Daphne was taking me into my misfit adolescence. She was the popular girl, the homecoming queen, the cheerleader; she was THAT girl. I expect every teenager, male or female, had some kind of a crush on THAT girl when they were in high school, and had experienced the unconscious effect THAT girl's smile or frown could have on one's sense of self worth. Even though I'd long since left high school behind me, I was apprehensive about the prospect of meeting Miss it was because Daphne was always a bit of a mystery herself. I was never entirely clear on why she'd joined Mystery Inc. in the first place. For Fred I'd always assumed. But then she stayed through that whole Flim Flam period while Fred and Velma were…doing whatever they were...come to think of it, maybe I'd been focused on the wrong unsolved mystery.

I finally worked up the nerve and meandered up to the front door of the house, reaching for the intrusive metal handle. A middle-aged gentleman with a receding grey hairline in a coat and tails beat me to the knock. "Ah the journalist," he smiled. "Miss Blake is expecting you."

"Thank you, Mr?"

"Jeeves," he answered.

I blinked. Seriously? People are actually named that? On purpose?

I'm quite sure my perplexity showed on my face, but Jeeves (again, seriously?) maintained more professional composure than I did and politely ushered me into a drawing room. At least I'd call it a drawing room. I don't actually know what a drawing room is; a room where you draw, I presume. It was spacious, with three huge windows on two walls showing a beautiful view of the beach and a single desk with two chairs in the corner. If I was going to draw in a room this would be my first choice.

Adorning the wall next to the doorway I had just entered was a series of bookshelves containing leather bound books, stacks of papers and the occasional globe or unicorn shaped statuette. This must have been one of the Blake's personal libraries. The ceiling was at least a story and a half high and a roller ladder was attached to a track about two-thirds of the way up. The bottom of an ornate wooden staircase began where the shelves ended. I secretly wondered if I might be able to take a sabbatical in this house for when I'd have to write Scooby's memoirs.

"The mistress will be down shortly," said Jeeves (I know this is an unimportant detail to obsess over but I can't even type his name with a straight face).

"Thank you," I said.

"Would you care for a spot of tea?"

"Please," I said even though I really don't really drink or like tea. Something told me he would be bringing out a whole tray of sugar, milk and honey which I could use enough of to make it taste like not-tea.

And then I heard a voice from the top of the staircase, the only voice that could make the word 'jeepers' not sound completely ridiculous. "Mind if I join you?"

There was a moment where the world stopped. What's-his-name said something but my brain didn't process it. Daphne sparkled, and in that moment it was the only thing that registered. For whatever reason: diet and exercise, good genetics, a trip to ILM, she hadn't aged a day since delivering that suit of armor to County Museum.

"Daphne." She cheerfully introduced herself with a feminine handshake. "So, you've solved our unsolved mystery?"

"I'm almost positive," I said, trying to keep a sense of humility about myself. "I was hoping you could fill in a few details."

"I'm always happy to help." She scurried up the roller ladder and retrieved a purple three ringed binder. She began flipping through it from the top of the ladder as she reminisced. "Did you know we technically had eleven unsolved mysteries?"

"Eleven?"

"Most of them happened during the last two years of Mystery Inc. Once people started recognizing us. We were being told made up legends by business owners looking for local publicity. It made it difficult to separate the real fake ghosts from the fake fake ones."

"I can't believe people would do that."

Daphne giggled as she turned another page. "It's actually funny how many thieves thought dressing up like zombies would scare people away from a heist instead of drawing more attention to it. We may have had a couple of cases that we abandoned too soon for lack of turning up any clues or ever encountering the thing we were there to unmask; the Manacled Mamba, the Grey Griffin -a personal favorite, and of course there's Weerd and Bogel but that's probably never going to be resolved. And then there was the Soothsayer."

She paused on the page she'd been searching for, and I wasn't sure what was going through her mind. Three primary suspects, one unrecovered treasure, and an accident which destroyed the costume and anything inside it.

"Miss Blake?"

"Daphne."

"Daphne," I said, "I have to ask this. Was the person in the costume killed that day?"

"No." She smiled, shutting the binder and returning it to its home on the shelf.

"But at the time you thought so?"

Daphne pushed off the shelf causing her to ride the ladder down the wall where she snatched up a wooden treasure box along the way. By the time the ladder had come to a rest she'd slid down the rails, landing with a gymnast's grace on the floor. "This," she said, "is the missing piece to the mystery."

I followed her over to the desk where she set the treasure box down and opened it for me. I was kind of surprised to find a series of postcards showcasing various world landmarks; the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids, the Hollywood sign. And on the backs of every postcard were the same words. "Wish you were here -D.B."

"We started getting those mailed to us one month after the whole soothsayer fiasco. For two years straight we kept getting them, once a month. Twenty-four in all." She flashed a knowing grin. "Now what do you make of that?"

I drew in a deep breath. "If I didn't know any better I'd say someone is gloating."

"What else?" Daphne prodded me.

"Whatever it was inside C.S. Barley's coffin was obviously worth quite a bit of money. Lindsey Channing would have had no reason to ever dress up like a spook to scare anyone away from the house since she already owned it at the time. Which suggests that she didn't actually know about the...can I call it the Macguffin Jewel?"

"Macguffin?" Daphne laughed. "I like that."

"But Sheriff Braxton, whose first name was Sam-"

"So no D.B. there."

"Right. He'd been eyeing a political career and needed money to finance a campaign. I think he knew about the Macguffin Jewel and wanted to casually slip it out from under Lindsey's nose once she turned over the deed to the museum. But obviously he didn't succeed because he's only just now running for Governor."

"Velma came to that same conclusion."

"Did she ever do a follow up on Daniel?"

Daphne nodded. "Once the postcards started coming in we all realized we'd never gotten Daniel's last name. A quick search revealed he was part of the law firm William & Joseph. He was the Joseph."

"But Velma didn't stop there did she?"

"Of course not. Like I say, nothing slips past her. A little more digging and we found out Daniel had legally changed his name to Joseph when he was eight. His mother remarried."

"And at the time his mother's name was Heather Barley."

I noticed Daphne's smile was fading a little. "Daniel was C.S. Barley's son. Who would have guessed?"

"So based on all the evidence, Velma was convinced that Daniel Barley had swiped the Macguffin Jewel away from both Lindsey and Sheriff Braxton and escaped with it during the commotion of a fake wax figure in the Soothsayer costume apparently falling to its death in a vat of chemicals."

Daphne sighed. "And he'd gotten away with it because of us meddling kids."

We sat in silence for a moment, as if we were waiting for some cop to show up out of nowhere say something like, "Well that just about wraps up this case." While sitting across a desk from Daphne Blake I suddenly had a thought which would never have come to me in the time I'd spent waffling in the car outside her beach house. What was it like to be Daphne? The word 'perfect' came to mind. Not that she was perfect because nobody is, but how many times in her life had she been called perfect? I could look at her and see her meeting the expectation like a virtuoso. Her hair was perfect. Her dress was perfect. Her nails and makeup and manners.

You don't meet the challenge of perfection without becoming a perfectionist.

I looked at 'perfect' danger prone Daphne in her perfect oil painting beach house that I'd been so afraid to smudge and gave her the most genuine smile I could. She received it the way she'd trained herself to, with only the slightest glimmer of distress in her eyes.

I spoke. "But that's not what happened, is it?"

Our conversation was cut short by the return of Jeeves with the tea I didn't want. He set the tray between us and fixed each of our cups. I began stirring way too many sugar lumps into mine as he prepared to leave us again. "Is everything all right miss?" he asked Daphne.

"Everything is fine," she assured him. "Thank you."

Jeeves nodded and left us to our tea. Daphne held up her teacup in a toast. "To the truth then." I mirrored her and took a sip. And for the record, it wasn't as horrible as I thought it was going to be.

"Velma pointed out there was no legend of the Soothsayer to accompany its appearance," I said. "In fact she even commented on how odd that was for a Mystery Inc. case. You'd think if anyone inside the museum had wanted to scare somebody away with their costume, they'd want to put some kind of a context around it. Daniel had every chance to effectively tell the backstory. In fact, the only reason you guys even knew there was going to be a ghost to begin with was because of the old man at the general store."

Daphne still held her teacup to her lips even though she was no longer drinking from it.

"Fred and I stopped by that general store. I happened to notice a collection of things like glow in the dark paint, raincoats, small light bulbs which could pose as a specter's eyes. And on top of that, there were Scooby Doo coffee mugs."

Daphne set her teacup down and nodded slightly.

"Here's what I think happened. When the mystery machine showed up unexpectedly at the store, the manager (being a Scooby Doo fan) put it together where you all were going. So he threw together a costume and went through all the usual tropes; warning you all to leave, chasing Shaggy and Scooby in the kitchen, kidnapping you."

The look on Daphne's face was stoic at this point, and I felt bad about the direction I knew I was going but I had to see it through to the conclusion.

"All of this was leading up to Fred's trap. But when it failed and everyone was convinced the Soothsayer had been killed, the manager only had to collect his jewel and calmly disappear back into the general store."

I hesitated, waiting for some kind of response from Daphne, but she only whispered "Go on."

Here it was. "I've been wondering how Velma could have missed a few things and it occurred to me that there might be an avenue she'd refused to explore, namely the Soothsayer needed help to pull off a heist like that at a moment's notice. You're the only one who spent any time with him. When he kidnapped you. You were the one who found the PhantomCon ticket stub which threw suspicion onto Daniel. No one would have guessed that you'd planted your own ticket as a clue. And you were the one who caused the trap to malfunction. Did I miss anything?"

"Just, why would I do that?"

I pointed to the treasure box with the postcards. "D.B." I said. "I think it stands for Doctor Bell."

Daphne blinked. "Who?"

"He hypnotized your aunt several years ago. I imagine susceptibility runs in your family. I think Doctor Bell got out of jail-"

Daphne interrupted me. "Do you _really_ think that? Seriously?"

I turned my eyes downward. "No. I just can't-"

"Yes you can," she told me. "Solve the mystery."

I couldn't look at her as I accused her of being an accomplice, so I rubbed my forehead to block my line of sight. "D.B. isn't who the postcards are from. It's who they're to. The old man was thanking you for helping him escape."

"And why?"

"I don't know."

"I betrayed my friends, -my family, Fred, Velma, to help a crook. Why would I do that?"

I really had no idea. "You knew him?"

"I'd never met him before."

"He threatened you?"

"I'm not helpless."

"He threatened Scooby?"

Daphne shook her head. "He was dying."

I stared at her, not quite able to wrap my head around what she'd just said. "He told you that?"

She leaned in towards me with a melancholic sincerity. "Do you know how many times I've been kidnapped? No one has ever asked me what I do when that happens."

I...never would have thought about that. "What did you do?" I mumbled.

"What I always do. I try to talk the person in the mask down. I tell them how likely they'll be caught. I ask if prison is worth it to them. I tell them exactly what their costume is made out of and make my best guess as to who they are. With the Soothsayer, I turned out to be right."

"And he took his own mask off?"

Daphne nodded again. "His name was Vance. He'd worked his whole life at that store. He seemed to be a good man. But then he found out he had a terminal illness with about a month, two at most to live. He suddenly felt like he'd done nothing with his life that he'd be remembered by."

She trailed off. I briefly fumbled for words before she reclaimed the memory.

"Then we came into his store. I guess he thought if he could just be a part of a Mystery Inc. mystery one time, it would be worth something. Even if he spent the rest of his short life in jail for it."

I suddenly understood. "And so then you got the idea, what if he became the one that got away?"

Daphne gave me a half grin. He would be legendary. I'd keep the secret for a while until people got tired of the story and then I'd reveal who he really was, and Vance would be immortalized in Mystery Inc. lore. And all I had to do was lie."

"And the Macguffin?"

"I didn't know about that. I don't think Vance did either, not until he was running around the museum in a painted raincoat. He must have seen an opportunity and taken it."

"That was...a tad underhanded."

Daphne shrugged. "Whatever it was he stole, it granted him two more years of life. Isn't that worth it?"

"Worth what?" I asked.

Daphne pinched her lips together uncomfortably. "The guilt."

"You know," I tried to assure her, "I get it. You did something very kind for an old man who was in _desperate_ need of kindness. It was certainly not your fault he wound up attaching a theft to it. And if you had admitted to helping him escape, I've no doubt Sheriff Braxton would have blamed it all on you because that's the kind of person he is. But what I don't understand is, why didn't you ever tell Fred or Velma?"

Daphne glanced out the window. "The sun is about to set. There is a perfect view of it from the swing on the porch if you'd like to sit out there with me."

Of course I said yes. We sat on the swing together gently rocking as the sun made its way to another part of the world much more effectively than I'd made my way from my car to the front door earlier. The whole time she didn't speak and I didn't ask her to. It wasn't until the blanket of the night sky draped over us that she answered my question.

"Have you ever lied to someone who trusts you?"

"I don't have kids." I was grateful she cracked a smile for me. "Probably."

"You know, when I planted that ticket stub as evidence I really thought Velma was going to pick up on it right then. And when she didn't...I don't know. In a way if felt...almost satisfying. I felt smarter than her. Just for that moment. I knew when we were away from the museum I'd tell everyone the truth, and also let Velma know the one other thing that she overlooked, which was that Daniel kind of liked her.

"But then I had to sabotage Fred's trap and dump the wax figure in the vat and pretend I thought I'd gotten someone killed. My performance was perfect, because the tears wound up being real. I wasn't expecting how it would feel to deceive. It's funny, in a way. We've dealt with so many creeps in masks who make it look so easy. Every time I remember that moment all I can think is, who was that girl? Not me. It must have been someone else.

"And all of them were so NICE to me about it. Although I don't think anybody ever told Shaggy exactly what had happened, but they knew I was upset and they...did everything they could to make it better. And then we found out about the empty coffin, and I swore I would keep my mouth shut until we were well out of the state. And then Velma did a background search on Daniel and I didn't know how to tell her that he was innocent. And then the postcards started showing up, and by then it had seemed like so long ago that I was afraid to even say anything.

"So I never did."

"You put on a mask," I said, and Daphne smiled tenderly at me.

"And I would have gotten away with it-"

I touched her hand. "I don't have to write this article."

"Yes you do," she told me. "It's the truth."

"To hell with the truth!" I said without thinking. "The truth isn't always the right thing. If I'd been in your situation I would have done exactly what you did. In fact, I AM in that situation."

Daphne looked at me with a puzzled expression. "How so?"

"Vance took off his own mask for you, and you chose to be kind."

She turned away from me. "That hasn't exactly left me feeling like it was a good thing."

"That's because Vance took advantage of your kindness."

I could see that she was mulling it over. "The gang deserves to know what really happened."

"Maybe so. But not from me." I gave her shoulder a friendly nudge. "You've been carrying this around with you because it just wasn't the right time. And then it was never the right time. What if this is the right time now?"

She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. For a moment there was only the sound of the ocean waves lapping at the shore. And then she smiled.

Epilogue

I promised Daphne I wouldn't print my article until she was ready. My editor was none too pleased, but I held my ground. I suspect it may have cost me at least one promotion, but some things really are more important.

It was about a month later when my news feed mentioned that Mystery Inc. was getting back together. I gave the screen a nod, as if it was a personal message to me, and published my article. I guess I was half-expecting instant responses from around the world, but the truth is the article ran and vanished with very little fanfare. But a few months later I started receiving some feedback (mostly criticism, but at least people were reading it). To my absolute delight I was _briefly_ a trending topic; well, Scooby was, but my article appeared in the hyperlinks.

I heard through indirect sources that Braxton was furious over what I had printed. Good. Of course it was long past the point where he could retaliate against Daphne, so all he could do was be furious. He also lost the election. Something about people finding him unrelatable. I'm sure I had no influence on that, but I sometimes like to stroke my own ego and imagine I took him down single-handedly.

With Mystery Inc. back together, Scooby's book deal was put on hold. I was equally relieved and disappointed. No, I'm lying. I was mostly relieved. I really didn't have the time to write a whole biography. Although down the road I'd love to do a retrospective piece on the whole team. But in the foreseeable future I have bills to pay, so that's going to stay on the backburner for now.

I'd like to say I'm now an award winning journalist because of my article. I'd like to say that, but I'm not. Yet somehow as I look at my cubicle's bulletin board I can't help but feel that I am. Taped to the board, just above the spot where I keep my coffee mug and my now stale (possibly petrified) Scooby Snack, is a recent photograph of the whole gang: Scooby, Shaggy, Fred, Velma, and Daphne all gathered in front of the Mystery Machine. And down at the bottom, in flowery handwriting, is a personalized inscription that reads "Wish you were here! -D.B."

No idea where they are in the world, but it makes me happy knowing that Mystery Inc. is out there. I pick up my coffee mug and toast the greatest mystery solving team ever. "Here's looking at you, Scooby-Doo."


End file.
